


Self Sacrifice

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Blood, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Cutting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This isn’t me teaching you something,” Will continues, opens his eyes and curls his fingers into a fist before relaxing them, over and over, so the blood flows faster from his veins. “This is about me teaching you a lesson. This is a <i>punishment</i>, Parvis.”</p><p>(Parvis goes too far with his blood magic one too many times, and Will steps in to teach him a lesson in the hopes of actually keeping him alive. It turns out self-sacrifice is only easy when you're the one doing it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this little headcanon](http://sparxwrites.tumblr.com/post/96720768235/after-finding-parvis-slumped-over-the-blood-altar-and) I dropped in Parvill's askbox on tumblr a while back.

Parvis is disorientated for a long second after he wakes up. For a start, he’s actually in a bed, something that doesn’t happen often – not because of any dislike for sleep, but simply because he’s so _busy._ Blood magic is intensive, demanding of attention and effort, and he just doesn’t have time more often than not.

(The fact he’s found it hard to sleep ever since leaving Will, since the brilliant nightlight green of Will’s eyes no longer filled the gloom of whatever room he’s trying to sleep in, is entirely coincidental. He’s sure of it.)

“This needs to stop.”

He blinks slowly at the voice, turns his head without moving the rest of himself, and finds Will Strife sat in a chair next to his bed. Will looks – well, _terrible_ is probably being generous. He looks dishevelled, dark bags under his eyes and crimson blood that Parvis suspects might once have belonged to _him_ stuck in the creases of his knuckles where he’s evidently not scrubbed hard enough.

“Do you know how many healing potions it took to keep you alive this time?” asks Will, and there’s fear in his voice, poorly hidden beneath the frustrated anger. “ _Three_ , Parvis. Three potions of minor healing. I’m no witch, I can’t brew them myself. Do you know how many favours I owe Lomadia and Nilesy now?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but Parvis answers it anyways, on the basis he’s not even been given the chance to say _hello_ yet. “A lot?” he hazards, winces a little when Will’s expression darkens.

“ _Yes_ , a lot!” he snaps, drags a hand through his hair and only succeeds in mussing it further. His customary glasses are missing, and Parvis absently wonders where they are as he sits up and stretches. Everything works perfectly, limbs functioning and heart beating – although there’s a new patch of crosshatch scars on the inside of one arm, a souvenir from last night.

“No _thank you for saving my ass yet again, Strife_?” asks Will sourly, viciously biting back a yawn. He’d arrived yesterday evening, intending to just drop by on his way home after an exploratory trip of the surrounding area. That intent had gone out the window when he’d found Parvis unconscious and slumped over that Notch-damned altar.

He hadn’t slept since, and the need to switch off for at least a few hours was calling to him, but it would have to wait. He’s well used to ignoring the needs of his body, after all.

“Thank you for saving my ass yet again, Strife,” parrots Parvis back, grinning and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed so he can meet Will’s eyes. He can’t help giggling at the look of frustration on Will’s face at the words, shaking his head and shrugging a little. “Really, though, I don’t see why it’s such a big deal – my altar would have fixed me up anyways, given enough time.” He smiles, like Will is a silly little child. “You keep forgetting, I’m basically _invincible_ now!”

He waits for the expected stream of complaints and insults about how stupid he is, how careless he is with his body and how dangerous blood magic is. It’s a familiar dance between the two of them, Will chastising him and Parvis ignoring him, one that they’ve played out enough times that they both know the steps perfectly.

What he’s not expecting is for Will to grab his shoulder and physically drag him out of bed.

“Ow, _ow_!” he whines, tries to wriggle out of the hold – but Will’s fingers are like iron, no give or bend in them at all, and all he can do is stumble along and try to keep up. “Hey, stop it, I can walk on my own!”

His words go unheeded. Will drags him out of the bedroom and down, down into the hidden belly of his castle with its bloodstained walls and haphazard sorting system, before finally letting him go. For a moment, he just stands there and blinks as his eyes adjust to the low light – but Will is already moving, searching through the diamond chests and muttering something rude about the sorting system.

Eventually, he finds what he wants, straightens up and turns back to face Parvis – who sucks in a slightly surprised breath at the dagger of sacrifice he’s holding in one hand. “Strife?” he asks, a little cautiously.

He’s fairly sure Strife wouldn’t actually sacrifice him over his own altar, but who knows. He’s driven far better people than Strife to do far worse in a far shorter amount of time, after all.

“There’s a lesson you need to learn,” says Will’s, words short and clipped, “about blood magic. I suppose now is as good a time as any to teach it to you.” Something on his face shuts down, like he’s bracing himself for impact, and Parvis completely misses it in his excitement.

“Oooh!” he says, bouncing over to the altar as he trails in Will’s footsteps. “Are you going to teach me something new and cool? I mean, Kirindave’s showed me a _lot_ of stuff I can do when I get a bit stronger, but I bet you know some stuff he doesn’t.”

Will shakes his head, touches the edge of the altar with two trailing fingers, closes his eyes for a moment. “No,” he says, firmly – and then, as Parvis watches, holds his forearm out over the altar and brings blade to skin.

He can almost _feel_ it, an electric frisson that rolls in waves through the room as the dagger of sacrifice slices easily through the soft skin of Will’s arm and lets the odd green of his blood spill out and into the altar. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he shivers, watches with wide eyes at the slow spill of Will’s blood down his arm, curling tendrils of green across his wrist and hand before finally dripping down.

“This isn’t me teaching you something,” Will continues, opens his eyes and curls his fingers into a fist before relaxing them, over and over, so the blood flows faster from his veins. “This is about me teaching you a _lesson_. This is a punishment, Parvis.”

“This is supposed to be a _punishment_?” asks Parvis incredulously, laughing. The sound echoes in the huge, stone room, a little crazy with the way it bounces off the walls. “ _Really_? You realise this is making me stronger, right?”

There’s no answer, Will’s face set and grim as he holds his bloody arm over the basin and waits. Impatient, Parvis starts to pace, stalking back and forth around the perimeter of the altar. The blood draining into the altar is making him restless, the power of his blood network filling like an adrenaline rush shot straight into his veins.

Slowly, though, the impatience and confusion wears down to worry. Will really should have stopped by now – he’s never liked self-sacrifice, has always been careful to give the absolute minimum of blood to ensure he doesn’t hurt himself.

He’s already given more than Parvis has ever seen him give, and he doesn’t look like he’s planning on moving. It’s… strange.

When Will’s arm starts going that strange shade of patchy pale that Parvis has seen his own go so many times before, though, he steps forward. Concern beginnings to simmer low in his stomach. It’s a strange sensation, one he’s not entirely familiar with, and that in itself is more alarming than the way Will’s started to sway ever so slightly where he stands. “Strife-”

“No!” snaps Will, and despite his better instincts Parvis stills. There’s something about that tone that, even after all this time and all the power he’s gained, still manages to freeze him to the spot. “This is a _lesson_ , Parvis, and one you need to learn.”

So Parvis stays still, watches helplessly as the minutes trickle by, as Will gets paler and paler with every slightly laboured inhale, as the altar fills with blood and greedily consumes every drop of it. He can’t do anything when Will starts swaying for real, bracing his hip against the altar and sucking in a deep breath to steady himself, and it makes his hands curl into tight fists at his sides.

He can’t take his eyes off the steady drip drip _drip_ of Will’s blood, though, thin lines running down his forearm in rivulets and falling in a steadily slowing stream into the polished, crimson bowl of the altar and staining it a faintly luminous green. It’s mesmerising – hypnotic, almost.

Despite his concern for his friend, the swell of power he feels gathering around him with every drop of blood is _addictive_ , delicious despite its wrongness.

It’s only when Will’s legs give out, send him dropping to the floor with a gasp and a desperate grab for the altar to slow his fall, that the spell is broken. Parvis cries out and stumbles forward, bounding up the steps on legs given extra strength and speed by blood magic, is at his side in seconds. “Will!” he yelps, drops to his knees and clutches Will’s shoulders.

“… _fine_ …” mumbles Will, the only word audible out of the mess of incoherence that spills from his lips, and Parvis only holds back from making a noise of derision out of sheer panic. Whatever else Will is, _fine_ obviously isn’t part of it.

He hooks hands under Will’s armpits, tries to help him sit up a little on his own, and only succeeds in getting Will to slump against him instead of the blood altar. At least it’s a more comfortable resting place, thinks Parvis, slightly surprised by just how _heavy_ Will is against his chest.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, voice shaking a little and hands hovering anxiously over Will’s shoulders, cheeks, head, not sure where to touch.

There’s blood everywhere over Will’s forearm, still dripping out of the horizontal cuts across his wrist, and Parvis hopes to Notch (doubtful as it is that Notch listens to his prayers any more) that Will hasn’t hurt himself badly. Unlike Parvis, he doesn’t know how and where to cut to prevent nerve damage, to minimise scarring. The thought of Will losing the use of his beautiful, clever fingers terrifies him.

Will slumps a little more heavily against him, draws in a breath that rattles slightly in his chest, and Parvis’ heart skips a beat.

“You’re an idiot,” he says again, forcing his voice cheerful and carefree. “ _Such_ an idiot, I mean, I’m the genius here. You shouldn’t really be trying to keep up with me, because you obviously can’t. No one can, because I’m _Parvis_. I’m awesome.”

He grabs for Will’s wrist, ignoring the greenish blood that makes his fingers slip against the other man’s skin – he’s used to it, now, the slickness that seems to never quite wash off – and presses his fingers over the cuts. Ignoring the slight hiss of discomfort from the man curled against his chest, he reaches for his blood network and _pushes_ , forcing blood back into Will’s veins and trying to force the skin to heal over with unnatural speed.

“Really, you’re very silly, Will, trying to do something like this. You- should probably just stick to your machines and things. And worshiping me, of course. If you were that eager to join my awesome cult then you could have just _asked_. I’d have been _more_ than happy to help. Silly William Strife.”

The light tone of his voice, the steady stream of insults, is belied by the rabbit-fast beat of his heart. Will must be able to feel it, shoulder pressed up against Parvis’ chest as he slumps limply against it and just _breathes_ in jerky, ragged motions, but he doesn’t say anything. Not that Parvis is exactly sure he’s capable of forming words right now.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters, an edge of desperation to the words, drains his blood network further in an attempt to heal Will faster. He’s being sloppy with it, he knows, wasting valuable blood – he’s no healer, usually uses the blood to prevent damage rather than fix it. Working off instinct and sheer force of will is generally not a clever thing to do with magic of any kind, but it’s not like he has a choice.

For several heart-stopping seconds, nothing changes. And then-

“Frankly, I… don’t know how… you do this, Parvis.” Will’s voice is soft, ragged, but it’s _there_ , and Parvis presses his face against the top of Will’s head and tries not to cry with relief. Will’s hair is short but soft, warm against his cheek, and when he inhales the smell is reassuringly familiar – gunpowder and hair products and the faintest hint of machinery, metallic and oily. “It’s… _horrible_.”

“Please don’t do that again,” is the only thing Parvis can manage in response. He hates how horribly small and whiny and _childish_ his voice sounds, but he can’t help it. The sick swoop his stomach had done as Will’s legs had buckled has left nausea welling up in his throat, a sick sort of dizziness that hooks into him like claws.

Will grunts, pushes himself away from Parvis’ chest to sit up on his own – although he leaves his wrist in Parvis’ fingers, their skin slowly glued together by the drying blood ( _his_ drying blood) that’s smeared over both their forearms. “I have absolutely no intention to,” he says, words firm but still a little slow and shaky. “Provided you agree to do the same.”

He really should have guessed, thought Parvis, that even near-death wouldn’t stop Will from being a spoil-sport for very long. “But _Will_.” This time, he doesn’t mind that he’s whining, outraged by the ridiculous demands. “I’m a _blood mage_! How am I supposed to do blood magic if I can’t bleed myself? That’s _stupid._ ”

Will sighs, rubs his free hand over his eyes. “I’m- not saying you can’t bleed yourself,” he says, and Parvis can hear the effort it takes him to say that in his voice. “But you can’t do it to the point you’re passing out or unable to stand. I’m just… I’m just saying, be careful.”

 _That_ , at least, he can do – especially if that’s what it takes to never, ever have to see Will like this again.

“You know me, Will!” he says, brightly. “I’m _always_ careful.” At the look Will gives him, though, he relents. Just a little. “I’ll be _more_ careful, though. Just for you. Because I like you _so much_.”

Just like that, he can see how Will shuts down; the soft vulnerability visible due to fear and blood loss obscured again by a wall of granite. The same mild irritation that always follows Parvis mentioning any kind of friendly feelings towards him takes its place instead, a faint scowl between his brows. “If it makes you take better care of yourself, then _good_ ,” he says, with a surprising amount of feeling. “You keep forgetting I’m not here to baby you every second of the day. Honestly, I’m just _slightly_ surprised you’re still alive.

It stings a little, after all he’s accomplished on his own, that Will still considers him an incompetent child. “I’m not _that_ useless,” he says, pouts, bites down on the words _you’ll see_. When he’s the most powerful mortal the world’s ever known, when he’s capable of taking on Ridgedog and Kirindave and holding his own, _then_ Strife will see.

Then they’ll _all_ see.

“Debatable,” mutters Will, before exhaling sharply when Parvis winds an arm around his back and hauls him to his feet. “Damn- _warn_ a man before you start dragging him around.” He sways, has to grab at Parvis’ shirt to keep himself on his feet with the way his head spins. “Do we _have_ to move?”

Parvis stands still, unusually patient, waiting for him to balance and catch his breath. He knows uncomfortably well what blood loss does to the body, has dealt with it far too many times – usually on his own, too, something he’s _very_ glad Will is unaware of. “We need to get you to a bed,” he says. “Or you’re going to fall asleep against the altar.”

Will makes an irritated noise, huffs out a slow breath and tries to steady himself a little against Parvis. “Do you even have anywhere for me to sleep?” he asks, doubtfully – Parvis’ own room is a mess, with a bed and not really very much else, so the chances of him having a guest room is probably rather small.

“I could put you in one of the cult beds!” says Parvis, brightly, giggling a little when Will makes a disgusted noise. “You _are_ my first and best cult member, after all.”  
“I’m your _only_ cult member,” Will reminds him, a little sourly. “And even that’s debatable, considering I never actually agreed to get involved with all this potty-mouthed wizardry nonsense.”

Parvis bites his tongue and doesn’t point out that Will’s agreement was implicit when he helped Parvis build his castle, helped him with the technology he needed to set up his blood altar, kept coming around despite Parvis’ inexorable descent into blood magic.

Implicit the first time he let Parvis take a blade to his arm and watched with wide eyes as he bled out to feed Parvis’ magic.

“I suppose I could put you in _my_ bed then,” Parvis says, allows a little of that overexcited, almost seductive edge that he knows annoys Will so much to slip into his voice. “That’s the only other place you could sleep, really, unless you want to go in with the villagers.”

Will shudders. “No _thank_ you,” he says, emphatically, so horrified by the idea of ending up in the villager spawner he completely forgets to respond to Parvis’ half-flirting tease. “And really, Parvis, you should probably build me my own room – considering how often I’m over here to fix your messes.” The sentence comes out a little fragmented, the insult added on as an almost-forgotten afterthought, and Parvis grins.

“There’s not really any point, though, is there?” he says. “I mean, that’s what the cult beds are for – and besides, my bed is big enough for the both of us. It’ll be like old times. You, me, a bed…”

It’s slightly impressive how quickly Will goes bright red, considering the lack of blood in his body.

“Me kicking you out of the bed,” he reminds Parvis, pointedly. “And besides, we were kind of poor back then.” Only at first, though, says a traitorous voice at the back of his head. There’d been plenty of wood and wool to spare for a bed, afterwards, and he’d never bothered to make one for all his complaining about Parvis’ wriggling and whining and cold feet.

Neither had Parvis, for that matter, despite _his_ complaining about hair going up his nose and the fact he couldn’t sprawl over the bed like an octopus and the way Will’s eyes glowed eerie green in the low light.

“Just like old times,” says Parvis cheerfully, fully aware that Will’s complaining doesn’t actually count as a _no_. “C’mon, Strifey, it’ll be fun! Like having a sleepover.”

Will barely has the strength to stay on his feet, even with Parvis’ helpful arm around his back, let alone the energy to argue. Besides there isn’t really any arguing with Parvis when he gets like this, overexcited and eager like some ridiculous, blood-soaked puppy. “If you call me _Strifey_ again, I will not be held responsible for my actions,” he says instead.

The threat falls hollow with how thin and exhausted his voice is, and is mostly lost underneath Parvis’ whoop of, “ _Yes!_ ” in victory. He doesn’t mind so much, just concentrates on staying upright and putting one foot in front of the other. Parvis drags him along, cheerfully oblivious to his struggle, chattering nonsense about something or another.

And – as always – Will lets him.


End file.
